flicker
by viennacantabile
Summary: Dying, it seems, isn't anything like how it looks in the movies. Riff, on endings.


Disclaimer: Heh, I wish I owned _West Side Story_. Do you know how happy that would make me? Happy, let me tell you. I'd probably be yammering on about it to the world, so trust me: if I owned it, you would know. XD

Note: I have about a frillion other projects I'm working on right now, so I am not quite sure how this got written so quickly, other than that it is very short. I hope you enjoy it.

For: honestly? Russ Tamblyn, because he is the best Riff anyone could ever imagine. Not that he will ever know I think that. Him, and the usual suspects **HedgehogQuill**, **Meg**, **cookies**, and **Squishy**, of course. :)

—viennacantabile

* * *

flicker

.

To die will be an awfully big adventure.

—J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

.

At first he has no clue what the fuck is happening.

He sees Bernardo's dark, vivid face in front of him—_don't stop now, come on, damn it, I'll give you the fight of your life, you lousy Spic_—and for a minute everything is absolutely quiet. No one moves. What the hell is going on? Riff wonders, is this a rumble, or ain't it?

And then pain radiates out in red-hot waves from his abdomen. Damn, he thinks, hardly able to believe it, he stuck me. He almost laughs, it's so ridiculous. This is going to hurt. Won't be able to rumble for weeks.

A beat.

God, it's hard to breathe, he notices suddenly, the air catching and dragging in his lungs. Time is moving so slowly now that as he drops his hand on Bernardo's shoulder to try and get his balance, Riff can see that the Shark looks like _he's_ the one who's been stabbed. Guess the kid ain't so tough after all, he thinks with some satisfaction, if a little blood and guts makes him hurl.

Blood. Riff's so used to the sight of his own blood that it never bothers him anymore, but the blood that is flowing out of him now feels different. Final. Like it's taking all the strength and energy and life out of him and isn't coming back. Like he's—oh, God, he's—

He takes a deep, staggering breath, because he's never thought about dying before. And then Riff almost laughs again, because if he had, he wouldn't have thought this'd be it. What a helluva death scene this is, with the Jets and Sharks all clustered around like little kids. He guesses that's what they all are, after all, even though ten minutes ago he would've said anything but. Ten minutes ago he was ready to fight, ready to kill in order to live. And now…

Dying, it seems, isn't anything like how it looks in the movies.

He turns—moving is harder than it ever was for him, the lights of the streetlamps are beginning to flare, his vision is fading—and there is Tony. The one guy he could ever count on, the best friend he could ever ask for. The only family he's ever had. Riff thrusts the knife out at him. Here, he says silently, locking onto Tony's scared-as-hell eyes with his own, take it. I'm done. It's all yours, buddy.

And Riff, for once in his life, is confronted with the idea that this is serious. This is for keeps. You don't get up, you don't laugh it off, you don't tell the punch line to this joke, because there is no happy ending here. Instead you hit the pavement because oh, God, it's hard to stand up with this pounding, throbbing, aching agony in your gut.

What's it like? he wonders dimly, cheek resting on the hard rough surface of the pavement. No matter how many times he's thrown away the name tonight, Riff has never believed in God, never believed for one second that he's going to end up in a bathrobe strumming a harp on some fluffy white cloud. That's dumb as Glad Hand and Tiger and Mouthpiece put together, and _shit_, that's saying something.

But what happens next?

Riff closes his eyes, because he wants to hang on for as long as he can, and it's too hard to keep them open anymore. There are better things to waste his last thoughts on. Like how he's going to make his mark wherever he winds up next. Hell, he thinks over the strangely muffled noise around him, look at what I did here. I made something out of these guys. The Jets. That's something to be proud of, ain't it? Riff, my man, your name will live forever. Even if you won't.

His breath is coming in short, shallow gasps now, and he can still hardly believe it. Damn, he thinks, here I go. But whatever happens to him now—well, whoever comes up against him next had better watch out, that's all he can say. Riff is king of the world, he's fire, he's dynamite, he is going out with a bang, and you'd better believe he'll do it all again wherever he ends up.

_—it doesn't even hurt anymore—_

And Riff, lying face-down and in the dark on the concrete, relaxes. Bring it on, he whispers, so quietly no one can hear him over the roar of the anguished, tangled mass of humanity warring around him, throw me everything you've got, I'm here, and I'm ready, and I'm—

.

.end.


End file.
